The Fall
by Avice.cr
Summary: After the initial shock John starts to have doubts about Sherlock's death. He needs answers to his questions. Mycroft is not happy about his persistence, but John finds what he is looking for. M - there will be slash.
1. Chapter 1

_Sherlock is dead. My best friend. He is dead._

The film played on an endless reel in his head. His _o_wn final words, hand falling, phone dropping. Legs like lead as he ran. Tried to run. Moving in slow motion. Each step taking forever.

What had made him stumble? The cyclist.

Scrambling up. Too late, too late already. Not close enough and way too late already.

It made no difference whether John was awake or asleep. The events played regardless. The phone dropped. His feet struggled.

There was no better, no all's well. No relief in waking up. Just the useless, useless legs, the delayed reactions. Sherlock is dead.

_People die, John. It's what they do. You know that. They just go and die. You've killed people, you know how it is. One minute there, gone the next. Dead._

Sherlock would never kill himself. He was too full of himself, wasn't he? Really believed he was gods' gift to mankind. Or at least to the Met. He never would.

But he had. John had seen it. He had seen the body. He had touched the body. Dead.

* * *

The jugular pulse had started to bother John. He hadn't checked it. He hadn't been able to. Too many people around the body. Had he been pushed away?

It really made no difference. Just a quirk. A professional's tick. But it bothered him. An unfinished task he couldn't check off his list. He should have been more thorough. He had tried.

Anyway it didn't matter. Sherlock would not do that to him. Not even Sherlock would be such a dick. No. So he should just let it go. Face the facts.

* * *

Dead people. Safer than living. Will not cause any more pain. Have caused all the pain they possibly can.

John specialises in forensic pathology. Hadn't thought he would be studying again. Lestrade helps him obtain one of the training posts. He wants to work in the field. As little in a mortuary as possible.

He keeps on seeing violent deaths. Not that they themselves provide any of the kind of excitement that used to make him feel better. He misses the genius who helped make sense of it. Misses the sense of adventure where he could still count on everything being all right in the end. Misses the one who made sure of it.

He hates death. Hates it with a passion. Does the best he can and more to stop it. To put anyone bringing death about behind bars. He is very good with his work. Thorough, observant, perfect in court: clear, sympathetic, short words, to the point. As good as an ordinary man can be.

He is deeply unhappy. He soldiers on.

John avoids working with Lestrade's team when he can. Hates the sight of them. Knows it's irrational. When he can't, he pretends they're not there.

He does take joy in seeing Anderson and Donovan fight over his wife. What did she think? That he would leave her? No, Sally, that is not the way these things work.

* * *

The more John sees, the more he suspects. Falls, that is. People jump off high places more than you'd think. The young, the old. More men than women. Taking that final, irreversible step. On occasion being made to take it. John studies them.

Too bad his recollections are so blurry. The shock and the cyclist having confused him.

The cyclist. His thoughts always return to him.

He has a copy of the file. The mountains of paper a death in public creates are staggering. But there is no cyclist.

He starts giving money to every beggar he meets. Gets to know the ones near the Yard, near his flat, near St Bart's. Learns their names, listens to their stories. Patches up their bruises. There is always enough time to be friendly.

"Face the realities, John," he tells himself.  
The trouble is, he doesn't want to. He doesn't like the reality.

He lies to his therapist. One way to ensure she won't be able to help. He is A-OK. Studies, work, mighty interesting. No worries. Death? Who's dead? Oh, him, well, these things happen. Shock, yes, at first of course. But. Been to the war and all that. Seen worse. Why, the leg? Odd, isn't it? Doesn't bother him, no. Why would it? The old wound playing up. And even if it's psycho-somatic, well, what can you do, eh? He doesn't mind. War leaves scars. That's just the way it is. Must make the best of it.

The more time goes by the more fuel creeps in to the fire. He can't be sure anymore what he remembers, and what he has made up. The rubber ball for example. Did Sherlock really bounce a rubber ball at the lab? It seems impossible to him now. But he has a clear memory of its thud against the floor and the cupboard door.

Sherlock doesn't fiddle when he is thinking, he focuses. He can almost see Sherlock's fingers squeezing the ball. Why would his mind make that up?

They played that game in medical school all those years ago. As an exercise: how to find a pulse when the patient is trapped, can't be reached. What information to trust. For fun, too: who would find a date who'd buy the 'I'm a vampire, I don't have a pulse' –line (one of girls did, he seems to remember). He doesn't dare ask: is he that date now?

John now knows precisely what a man falling from the top of a five-storey building looks like. How he sprawls on the pavement. What is intrinsic bruising. What is typical and atypical. What is impossible.

He does not remember what Sherlock looked like. He remembers blind panic. He remembers the dark hair. Unimportant details.

_John, details are never unimportant._ He goes back to them. But he can't trust his memories.

There are no photos. Sherlock was whisked away too soon.

He asks Molly about the rubber ball. She twitches, says she doesn't remember. Will not meet his eyes.

Molly starts avoiding him. Turns around in corridors. Is always on the phone when passing him.

No, she has avoided him all along. Didn't come to the meet-up when he started his training. Hasn't worked with him once. Which is near impossible with the minimal staff they are. Embarrassed at having fallen for a fraud? Doesn't she believe in Sherlock?

He corners her, asks her straight up. She will not meet his eyes. She will not answer.

He's in panic all over again. Feels dizzy. _Why won't she answer? Doesn't she believe?_

"Sorry, I can't help you, John, I've got to dash."

He sits down on the floor. What does it mean? Does it mean something? _What are you doing? Making up a conspiracy? Pull yourself together._

He lies in his blog. He is focused on his work. Finds it rewarding. Life is good. He doesn't tell anyone what he really is focused on.

Who does he lie to? Himself? Why? What's the point? He already knows, doesn't he?  
_What?_ What does he know?

"You are not a fanciful man, John Watson," he tells the mirror. Can a mirror image frown in disbelief?

When he goes out on a date he can't hear what she is saying. He only hears the steady thud of a rubber ball. He only sees a wisp of short dark curls. There are no second dates.  
There are no first dates.

* * *

Why wasn't Mycroft at the burial?

"John, I'm sure even you must realise that I have no desire to converse with you now that Sherlock is gone. We are not friends on our own right, I counted on you understanding that much."  
John is barred from his club. Can't get near him.

Why do the CCTV cameras always pan his way then?

He flips at them. Can't get in touch with Mycroft for an answer. _Keep the bloody cameras off me, if I'm a person of no interest._

Why preserve Sherlock's rooms? Not come to his grave but pay for the upkeep of a mausoleum?

He is taken down by security as he tries to approach Mycroft. Spends a night in a cell.  
Succeeds in being an annoyance at least.

"Let it go", his therapist would say, if he told her the truth, "you can't go on like this. It's not healthy."

Sherlock is dead. _You saw him fall._ I didn't see him hit the ground. _I_ hit the ground. _You saw his body._ But was it a dead body? _Of course it was. Get it together for Pete's sake! _

The fall. He wakes up to it. Feels he is close to something.


	2. Chapter 2

**~WARNING: SLASH; ROUGHISH SEX, SLIGHTLY NON-CON~**

* * *

"Remember this man?"

A sly nod. She doesn't want to talk. But John has plastered and treated a wrist she broke, disinfected her wounds after a beating.

"I need to find the cyclist, who hit me when he fell."

He has cured her dog, when the beast couldn't keep anything inside, vomiting all over (poisoned?). She will look into it. She needs to think about what to do.

John doesn't see her anymore. She leaves her usual haunts. Changes jackets with a friend.

It doesn't matter. John knows a lot of people.

A lot of people who nod. Promise to look into it. Have to find new corners to hunch in.

He is no closer to finding the cyclist. He is closer to something. A CCTV camera whirs.

Finally he spots the guy who used to sit near St Bart's, but disappeared after a nod. John doesn't realise it, but he drops his cane and runs. He doesn't notice that his leg doesn't hurt as he catches the man, pushes him against the wall.

"Where the hell is that cyclist?!"

"I don't know, mate, I swear I don't know. Let go!"

"Who was it? Tell me!"

"I'm telling you-"

John remembers where the festering scar was, knows it will still be sensitive.

"Ow! All right, all right. No need to go all CIA on me, mate. The name's Chris Jackson. Used to hole up in Finsbury somewhere, but hasn't been seen there since. I don't know where 'e is. No one does."

"Thanks, mate. And you really should see a dentist. Like I've said, those gums can kill you."

"Yea, yea. Whatever, doc."

It takes a couple of days before a black car finally pulls over. The door opens.  
John smiles. He is on to something.

* * *

Another deserted industrial complex. Shouldn't these places be hubs of activity? Constantly grind riches for the benefit of the nation?

"John. How inconvenient to see you."

"'That so, Mycroft? Too bad you missed our appointment in the custody suite. We could have talked all night."

"We never thought you'd let detective work rub off on yourself so successfully," Mycroft sneered.

"We? Is that the royal 'we'?"

"But - alas - it has. You're persistent, too. Unfortunately we can't have all of London's homeless relocated just because of you," Mycroft tsked. "I don't suppose there is any chance of getting you to give up your hunt for a rogue cyclist?"

"Nope."

"What exactly are you hoping to find? An apology for disregarding road safety?"

"Answers."

"Well, well," Mycroft eyed him with a hint of amusement, "I would have of course had you sent back to Afghanistan. They always have paperwork, you know, even an invalid can manage that."

"Not an invalid, thanks."

"Yes, I see you're off the cane again. We'll see how long that lasts... but as I was saying, he wouldn't hear of a deployment."

"Who's that? Chris Jackson?"

Mycroft laughed amused.  
"Good Lord, of course not. Hmph, you're not any smarter. Just a dog on a scent. Well, that seems to be enough this time. Goodbye for now, John, you'll get a text soon. Just follow the instructions. I'm sure you can manage that."

John expected to find Anthea outside waiting for him, but the vast concrete yard was deserted.

What? He was supposed to walk back to town? Which way was it anyway?

It beeped in his pocket.  
_Start walking. Just follow the _  
There really was nothing else he could do since he didn't know where he was.  
_You're in Finedon. But do not call for a _

Right. Thanks, LS.  
John started walking.

As far as he knew there was only one person who signed their texts. Not an LS.

* * *

It was getting dark. He had been walking for two hours. Every now and then the phone instructed him at junctions, apparently steering him clear of residential areas.

He had replied only once with a _For how long?_ And got a _Keep _ back.

At long last the texts allowed him into a suburban neighbourhood.

_Next _

_Right at next red _

_Stop at the shop on your right. Get tea and _

_And _

_Another two _

_The blue door. 2nd floor. LS_

The door was open. John went in slowly. The ground floor was quiet. Seemed uninhabited. He sighed and sat on the stairs.

Did he want to go up? To find out? Would Sherlock really be this massive of an arsehole?  
Of course, if anyone would, it would be him.

John opened the biscuits and ate one. Sipped milk straight from the bottle. A door opened upstairs. Someone stepped on the landing. The stairs creaked.

He sat next to John.  
"The kettle's boiled. The water's getting cold."

"What a pity."

John handed him the shopping. He got up.  
"I've got two chairs, if you'd like that cuppa."

"In a minute."

He started ascending. Slowly, keeping an eye on John.

John buried his face in his hands. Groaned. Got up.  
"Shit." Beat. "Fuck."  
Followed him up the stairs.

Sherlock had set the shopping on the table. Stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. He had apparently expected a different kind of entrance. Possibly open arms and the rest.

John stepped over to him. Close. Stared at him. Eyes blazing.

"You're a right bastard, you know."  
Fists clenched.

Sherlock backed away.

"Do you have _any_ idea what I've been through?"  
John stepped close again. Agitated breath on Sherlock's neck.

"Maybe a tiny inkling of the hell I've suffered?" John said. "Not just the mourning, mind you. Besides grieving also wondering whether I'm going mad. You know, trying to choose between sadness and madness," he took a step closer still. "Would I rather be crazy fantasising about conspiracies just so you'd be alive, or should I choose reality with the crippling pain and not being able to get out of bed because I feel so fucking bad. Difficult choice. What would you have done?" John snarled.

Sherlock took a step back.  
"Look, John, I'm sorry. I – "

"Oh, you _will_ be."

Sherlock was back against the wall now.  
"What do you mean? What are you going to-"

John twisted Sherlock's arm between his back and the wall. A bruising hold. Pressed his merciless lips against Sherlock's. Took control.

"John! What are you-?" Sherlock tried to object.

While Sherlock's right arm was pinned behind him, the left one was being held in a tight grip and used to push him closer to the wall. John's left hand was behind his neck, forcing his head lower, thumb pressing in him, the heavy hold almost strangling him.

"Shut up. Shut the _fuck_ up," John grunted.

Demanding lips. A tongue breaching into his mouth. Protests silenced with teeth nibbling lips. Biting. John pressing against him, hips grinding into him.

John's strong hands on him, holding him in place. Tongue sucked so hard it hurt. The hand behind his back going numb.

"You're hurting me," he managed to gripe into John's mouth.

"You have no idea what hurt is," John bit his neck, left a mark on it. "And didn't I bloody well tell you to shut up?"

Teeth grazing his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. His head tilting back, a gasp of pleasure escaping.

"We'll just have to put that mouth of yours to better use then, won't we?" John's voice shaky.

John stepped back, forced Sherlock to his knees while holding a tight grip on his hair. John opened his trousers.

"Here's something that'll shut you up."

A heavy cock in front of Sherlock. A wet drop glistening on top. Sherlock moistened his lips.

"Mouth open, pretty boy. Watch those teeth."  
John shoved in hard to Sherlock's mouth. Made him gag. Pulled back only a little.  
"Now, show us what you've got. Whether that mouth of yours has any use," John gasped as Sherlock wrapped his lips around him, took him in.

Sherlock traced John's cock with his tongue. John filled him. He sucked. Pulled John in. Let go. Passed his tongue over his glans, tickled.

Found out how to make John gasp. Had him moaning, gasps of air.

John looking at him. Need in his eyes, enjoying the sight.

He made John tilt his neck back, forced him to support himself against the wall.

"Ah, yes, that's it. I always knew you'd be good at this. A man won't have lips like that for nothing," John panted.

Took John in deeper still. Learned how to suppress the gag reflex. Worked John with his tongue. Made him shudder. Made him moan. Curse. Had John at his mercy.

"Not so fast. We're just getting started," John groaned and pulled out.

He lifted Sherlock up.  
"Let's see how you liked it." He grabbed Sherlock's groin. "You did. You liked it a lot, you dirty little cocksucker."

He fondled Sherlock's hard cock over his trousers. Opened his pants in a hurry. Took Sherlock in his hand. So eager, ready. Ready for him.

Stroked roughly. Sherlock gasped.

He tore open Sherlock's shirt, sank his lips, teeth into his chest.

Sherlock let out a cry of excitement as John's tongue played on his nipple. John took his shirt off him, pants fell to his ankles.

"On the floor," John ordered.

Sherlock, happy to oblige, got on all fours. Quavering. Nervous, nervous as hell. Aroused, so aroused he'd never been before.

"Don't worry, love, I always come prepared."  
John had a small pack of lube in his pocket. Not a very recent purchase, but it would have to do.

He spread it on his cock, getting some on his fingers as well. He was tempted to just push in, just fuck Sherlock hard, not care how it would be for him. Fuck him so it hurt. Fuck that cruel, heartless bastard 'til he'd beg for mercy. Well, there is more ways than one to have him begging...

He stuck a finger in Sherlock's ass, no warning, no caressing. Prostate. Sherlock shivered, whimpered. Was ready for anything. With John.

"John, fuck me. Please," he moaned.

Easy. Too bad John wasn't one to take requests from such bastards.

Slowly he stretched Sherlock, slipped in another finger.

Sherlock pleading with him. Asking to be fucked. _Now. Please._

Torturing Sherlock with slow caresses, passing brushes on his prostate. Keeping him on the edge, as close as possible, making sure he wouldn't come.

Getting even more excited by Sherlock's shaky voice, the need in him, the response from his hips on the movement of his fingers.

And then. In. Hard.

Sherlock was so tight John almost came as soon as he was in. The heat pulling him in, surrounding him.

"Shit," he grunted. Slowed down his movements.  
Oh god, he wouldn't last long. He couldn't. Dear god. It was good. Oh, it was good.

He took a hold of Sherlock's cock. So hard. Fist tight around it. Jerked. Steady strokes. Faster.

Sherlock's back arched. Gasping, shuddering, spraying sperm on John's fingers. Moaning under his breath, unintelligible, lost for words and reason.

John held on to Sherlock's hips, tried to fight the waves of Sherlock's orgasm pulling him along. He couldn't move. It was too sweet. In, just a bit. Oh, fuck, Sherlock. Shit. Bloody hell.

He let out a shout. Cursed.

Fell against Sherlock's back. Fuck. Clung on to him.

John collapsed on the floor eyes closed. Half-passed out really. Head spinning. Catching his breath. He couldn't remember the last time he had had sex. Knew he had never had sex like this. Amazing.

Sherlock fell next to him. Took a hold of his hand. Squeezed it. Pressed to his lips.

"Don't ever fucking leave my sight again," John muttered when he was finally able to speak.

A dry laugh.  
"If that was supposed to discourage me from reunions, I think you did it wrong."

"No, it was to show you what you'll miss, if you piss me off this royally ever again."

"Things might have been different had I known there was that to be missed," Sherlock remarked quietly.

"Had I known, you can bloody well believe, I would have told you. But I'm pretty sure you knew it the minute I did. Which was about half an hour ago," John chuckled.

"So you didn't look me up just to ravage me?"

"No. Though I admit that I did fantasise about a physical altercation. Just of a different sort," John smiled.

"To be honest – I knew before you," Sherlock said.

"How's that?"

"Two hours before."

"Mycroft?" The Holmes brothers really were too observant for their own good.

"I think the phrase he used was 'like a dog having caught the scent of a bitch in heat'."

"Lovely. Don't know which of us should be more offended. I'm starting to see why you hate him."  
John caressed Sherlock's hip bone. Wet. Sweat. Sperm? He licked the tip of his finger. Both? Wasn't sure.

"I'm proud of you, John."

"Proud? I'm ok in the sack?"

"Of how you found me. Didn't give up. How you deduced your way after me."

"Must've just caught the scent," John smirked.  
He rolled to his side. The floor was uncomfortable, but he wanted to look at Sherlock. The mark of his mouth on his neck. The flush of sex on him. Red lips, swollen.

"Pity. I wished I'd be ok in the sack. Never done it with a man before though, so I suppose you can't expect miracles," John admitted.

"Oh, the sex? That was fantastic. Not at all what I expected. I thought it would be more… boring. Like eating," Sherlock smiled pleased.

"What do you mean…? Are you saying that…? Shite! Don't tell me that was your first time?" John winced.

"Why shouldn't I tell you that?"  
Sherlock turned his head to the side to meet John's eyes. The blue eyes piercing him, looking through him.

"Because. I just _took_ you. I would have… I wouldn't have… It should've been more… I shouldn't have…" John tried to explain.

"I have no idea what you're trying to say, John. I hear first time is often a disappointment, whereas I'm happy to say I am perfectly satisfied in every way and enjoyed the experience immensely. It exceeded all of my expectations. And," Sherlock added as an afterthought, "I got to experience it sober with the man I love and respect and plan to spend the rest of my life with, which is a lot more than most first timers get. So, I can assure you I have no regrets. Unless, of course, you didn't care for it. In which case I must say your responses were most misleading."

John didn't know what to say. So much feeling so matter-of-factly from a man who prided himself in rising above ordinary emotions. He did. There was nothing ordinary about Sherlock.

"I'm sure there's time for other variations later," Sherlock continued, "I haven't really delved into studying sex yet, but I've understood there's more ways than one…"

"Oh, yes. There's all ways and some," John said.

"So, we'll get to it. You'll get your 'perfect first time'."

"You can only have first time once, Sherlock."

"Don't be stupid – there are hundreds, maybe thousands of first times: first time in bed, first time you blowing me, first time slowly, first time in public… First time you _not_ calling me a pretty boy," he mocked.

John laughed.  
"Did I do that?"

Sherlock nodded with a smile.

"Shame on me. When you're actually a gorgeous man."

Sherlock turned, rested on his elbow and let his hand wander under John's shirt.  
"First time with you naked, too," he added.

"Oi, you're making me horny again with all this sex talk."  
John looked down on himself. Yep, coming alive.

Sherlock got up, reached out his hand and pulled John along.

"I have a bed, too."  
He helped John shed his clothes on the floor. They might as well tick off at least two first times from the list. It was only getting longer as Sherlock had begun adding items to it.

"After all the walking I wouldn't mind a bed. You couldn't manage getting me a lift?"

"We had to make sure you weren't followed. Easier when you walked."  
Sherlock looked at John's naked body with appreciation. Strong, reliable. He caressed John's chest, lost in thought, tracing the muscles, pinching the pale curls. Finally turned to lead the way to the bedroom.

John slapped Sherlock's behind. Nice and firm.  
"You've been this close all along?"

"No, I just got here a couple of days ago, when Mycroft alerted me of the problems you've been causing. I've travelled in the East mostly."

John pushed Sherlock on the bed getting on top of him.  
"Did you miss me?" he asked.

Kissed Sherlock. Slowly. First real kiss. A gentle kiss. Hard to pull lips apart.

"I don't know. I thought about you constantly. Every time I woke up I always wondered why I hadn't heard you making coffee. I talked to you. But it wasn't the same, because I _never_ got to hear what you thought about the things I saw and experienced. I almost…" Sherlock frowned, "I almost tried to imagine what you'd say."

John smiled. Pecked his lips.  
"Sounds like you missed me."

"If that's what it's like, yes, then I did. I was not content without you."  
He left out that he had made Mycroft sent him a lot of CCTV footage. That might seem creepy. He wasn't sure.

Their hips were slowly rubbing against each other. Getting ready, taking their time.

"But you wouldn't be back if I hadn't tried to find you?" John asked.

"Not yet. Eventually, yes."

John pressed his forehead on Sherlock's. Closed his eyes. Wanted to say. _I hate you. I hate you, I love you so. Don't leave me. Please, please, come back for me._ Didn't.

"Who's LS?" he pulled away. Lay next to Sherlock. Let his hand wander on Sherlock's body idly.

"Lars Sigursen. Me."

"If you ask me, I prefer Sherlock. Not that that isn't a weird name, too," he nudged his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, played with his nipple.

"Easy for you to say, _John_. I guess some people just have more imagination than others."  
Sherlock's hand caressing his face, learning it.

"Says the man who can't even imagine his lover's responses."

"Lover." They kissed. "I like that. But you weren't my lover then."  
He fondled John's hips. Brushed the hair around his cock.  
"Besides, even if there was a point in trying to imagine your responses, which there isn't of course, because that would render human interaction useless, I never could. You surprise me, John. Like no one else."

"Do I, pretty boy?" John grinned.

"John...," Sherlock's voice full of warning, laughter, "do _not_ call me that!"

"Why? What are _you_ going to do?" John led Sherlock on.

Sherlock kissed him. Softly tucked his lips.

"_I_ am not going to do anything. I think it's time you showed me some of those perfect first time moves."

John took on the challenge.

Kissed Sherlock so gently, carefully. As if he might break. Let his hands wander over Sherlock's body lightly, hardly touching. Sherlock's skin a delicate canvas he painted on. Painted his love, his grief, his longing on it. His ecstasy. His lips tracing over the nooks and angles of Sherlock.

Learning him. To never forget what Sherlock feels like alive. Warm, naked. With him. His.

"Are you mine?" a whisper.

"Always," a moan.

Sherlock sighing, shivering. His cock rising amidst the dark curls, reaching up, for John. John licking him, the tip of the tongue barely gliding over him. Lips on his glans. Thumb on his perineum.

Don't ever leave.

Never. Never.

Sherlock in his mouth. A gasp. _Only me, I'm the only one who has done this, ever gets to do this._ Tongue circling Sherlock's cock. Feeling everything of him. Desperate fingers in his hair. Trying to hold on to something. To him.

Not making Sherlock beg, giving him what he wants, what he needs. Needs him. Will always need him. For this. For everything. _Won't you? I will, I do. You, John, you._ Sucking Sherlock's cock. It is the best, the only thing he ever wants to have in his mouth. In him. Holding on to his hips. Mouth on him. Pulling him deeper. Until.

"Sherlock," kissing the corner of his eye. A tear? "I love you."

"I love you, too, John."


End file.
